Page 60 of Savage Protector

He drops into the closest chair. I pull a bunch of cable ties from my pocket and offer them to him. “Take two and use them to secure your right wrist to the arm of the chair, if you’d be so kind.”

His hand is shaking even more, but he takes a couple of the cable ties. He does nothing with them, though. Instead, he simply stares at me like a rabbit in headlights.

“Do it,” I snarl. “I don’t have all evening.”

He bursts into life. “Please, whatever you want, just take it. I won’t?—”

“Do as you’re fucking told.” I’m out of patience, and my tone portrays that loud and clear.

He gets the message and fumbles his way through the task, pleading with me the entire time to ransack the place if I want, but please let him go.

I wait until his right hand is out of action, then I pocket the gun. Before he can register this and strike out at me, I beat him to it. A murderous right hook shatters his jaw with a most satisfying crack. I manage to avoid the spurting blood and accompanying shower of teeth when I grab his free hand and cable tie that, too.

I leave him to splutter and moan and sob while I get on with stuff.

I start by doing the rounds retrieving his dislodged teeth. There are three of them, evidence I suppose of poor oral hygiene. I drop those in his shirt pocket. We’ve no intention of leaving this place looking like a crime scene. And Ethan did expressly instruct us not to make a mess.

So far, so good. I take a seat and regard my less-than-happy companion. The bleeding seems to have slowed, but I’ll wait a few more minutes before wiping the bloodstained floor around him. Meanwhile, we have time for a chat.

“So, why did you do it?” I ask.

He mumbles something incomprehensible and tugs uselessly at his cable ties.

“Don’t waste your energy,” I advise him. “You may need it later.” Though I doubt it, he’ll have no real opportunity to make any difference to what’s soon to happen. “You were about to explain why you and your brother decided to torch Leila’s flat.”

He glares at me, and I’m treated to more gurgling. I do manage to catch the phrase ‘fuck you’.

I shrug. “Okay, have it your way. Your reasons don’t much matter, though I can guess. One more thing. What’s the alarm code?” I glance at the infra-red sensor in the corner above us.

“Fuck you,” he repeats.

I pause for a moment, my instructions to leave minimal mess ringing in my ears. Still, he won’t know I’m bluffing.

I grab a pair of scissors from the closest workstation. Shiny, silver, with rapier-sharp points, they’ll do well enough. I move behind him and grab his hair in my fist to force his head back. “So, which is your favourite eye?” I position the point of the scissors at the corner of his right eye. “This one?” I press lightly, not enough to draw blood, but I certainly have his full attention

Mehrban screams. “Stop! Don’t”

“The code,” I remind him.

“Zero three nine four seven,” he screeches. “Please, don’t…”

I reckon he’s telling the truth, but I test it anyway. There’s a helpful little set of instructions on the back of the plastic door that covers the keypad, so I key in the code then follow with ‘set’. The system beeps for a few seconds, enough time for someone to leave. The beeping ends, there’s one, final long beep, then the display reads ‘system armed’.

“Sweet,” I murmur, then key in the code again followed by the letter ‘A’, as per the instructions. The beeping ends, and the display reads ‘system unset’.Good stuff.

I check my watch. “Your brother should be here soon, then we can get on with tonight’s bit of business.”

I leave him to his frantic struggles and pathetic pleading. I have shit to do, I need to get on.

I resume my thorough check of the premises, and I’m pleased to discover a rear door. It’s bolted on the inside, as well as secured with a decent security lock.

The hair-washing sinks are arranged in a row of three on the opposite wall. Each one is helpfully designed with that cut-out bit at the front, for the client’s neck to rest on. I test the taps and leave them on. I fill two of the sinks up to around the two-thirds mark then turn off the taps. Next, I take a wander into the storeroom and peruse the shelves of various products. I’m tempted to treat my guests to a cocktail of nasty chemicals, just to heighten the experience, but decide against it. They’re both going to die this evening, and that will have to be enough. Anything more would be petty and vindictive. Still, I deliberate for a while before selecting a tube of peroxide.

Back in the main salon, I take a moment to check the cable ties, then pat my companion on the shoulder. “Not long now,” I assure him, holding the tube of peroxide in front of his shattered nose. “I found this stuff. Is it strong?”

My question elicits more struggling and screaming. I take that as a ‘yes’.

I open the cap and sniff the contents. There’s a faintly floral aroma, not the usual bleach smell you get from floor cleaners and swimming pools. Still, it would probably be noticed when next someone comes in here. Best not to leave any unnecessary clues.

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